


Chess

by mmacy



Category: Madam Secretary
Genre: F/M, Marriage Tensions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29945190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmacy/pseuds/mmacy
Summary: She felt that they just didn't know each other anymore.
Relationships: Elizabeth McCord/Henry McCord
Comments: 11
Kudos: 15





	Chess

She wasn’t one to cry over these things. She wasn’t one to have panic attacks over the state of her marriage either, yet these last two weeks, two weeks of sleeping in separate beds, separate rooms, she’d found herself clinging to the notion of it, them, not being like this forever— staying at the office just to avoid him; disappearing up into the guest room just to avoid her.

If it came to it, she’d rather be separate, living their lives individually if that’s what made him happy, or at least less miserable then he was now.

She’d thought about it, over these past two weeks, more often than she’d like to admit. She’d asked him as they sat, her anxious, him fuming, in that auditorium, but the difference then was that it was uttered as a joke. Now? Now she was terrified to admit that what was once a joke now looked more appealing than the constant back and forth fighting.

“Mom?”

The fork slips from her fingers and comes clanking down against the side of her plate when she startled— she’d been jumpy, even more so than she usually was, ever since coming home from Geneva.

“Hmm,” she mumbles. “What?” She asks, looking to Stevie.

She knows she must have missed something by the expression on her daughter’s face. When she was worried, she narrowed her eyes and knit her brow just like Henry.

“Jason was talking to you,” she says.

She turns to her son.

She tries for a small smile, but it barely stays for more than half a moment. “What baby?”

“I was asking if I could go to Zach’s house on Friday?”

She sighs. “Ask your father,” she tells him.

“He said to ask you.”

She looks across to the other end of the table, and they meet eyes for a moment before his stare falls down to his plate.

She turns back to Jason and— “It’s fine with me if it’s fine with him,” she says.

“Cool,” he mutters as he pushes back his chair from the table.

She holds up a finger. “But his parents have to be there Jace. We don’t need a repeat of what happened at Kyle’s.”

He stands, grabbing his plate. “His parents will be there,” he confirms, but she doesn’t miss the huff in his voice.

She holds up her hands. “Just making sure.”

“Mom doesn’t have the time to call and apologize to twelve other moms about something stupid you did at a party,” Ali comments.

“At least I get invited to parties,” Jason bites back.

And she can already feel the migraine setting in.

It only takes two seconds before Stevie inserts herself into the conversation, and two more before the dining room erupts in full on bickering, something she’s done her fair share in today.

She lets out a breath before raising her voice. “You know what guys—” she begins loudly, and all three of the kids quiet. “Dad and I will handle clean up. Why don’t you head upstairs?”

And they must like the prospect of getting out of dishes and counter scrub downs because they disappear without another word.

And when she hears feet on the stairs she stands from her chair with a huff before bending down and grabbing two plates. 

“You’re quiet,” she comments, stealing a glance his way.

He pushes back from the table.

“You seem to have it handled.”

Her jaw tenses and the ache in her temples seems to deepen. And does it mean something if everything that comes out of his mouth makes her want to rip out her own hair?

She crosses into the kitchen, and he follows a few steps behind, carrying his own plate and the salad bowl.

And as she sets the two dishes down next to the sink, she goes back and forth deciding whether to bring it up— the thought of going yet another night without sleep is what pushes her over.

“I think we should sit down and talk about this instead of dancing around it as we have been.”

She glances back at him.

“I’m really not in the mood,” he says.

She turns back to the sink, taking a deep breath, trying to hold her tongue, but she’s tired, and irritated, and not the only one angry.

“When are you?”

And the next thing she hears is ceramic clanging against granite.

“You want to talk about it? Fine. Let’s talk,” he says.

He begins rambling before she even has the chance to face him.

“You claim that this was the only way, that negotiating away—”

“You don’t believe me?” She butts in.

His hands fall to the countertop, and he’s leaning into the island. “No one else was in the room Elizabeth.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “So, my word is no longer enough?” she pushes.

He shakes his head. “Not on this,” he tells her.

She swallows. “Well unfortunately I can’t do anything about you not trusting me.” She looks to the floor, and— “You know when I was with the CIA I—”

He laughs.

Her head lifts up.

“Of course,” he mutters.

“What?” she asks quietly.

He meets her eyes from across the room, and she’s scared of what she sees there. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t her. This wasn’t who they were, and it certainly wasn’t how they treated one another, how they spoke to one another.

“It’s always about the Agency,” he says. “Always comes back to it, and maybe that should have been my first clue.” He rounds the edge of the island, and— “You—” he points a finger at her. “You move people like— like chess pieces. And that may be okay with you, but I can’t be a part of that kind of game.”

She stares at him, lips parted, because words are lost on her, words won’t come, and she thinks she can’t even begin to defend herself when the person on the other side of the argument was nowhere near ready to listen— she wonders when it was that she had to begin defending her moral beliefs, her decisions made when decisions seemed impossible. She thinks he doesn’t know the half of it. She thinks he’s only had a taste of what it had been like for her, not just for a six-month special project, but for twelve whole years of her life. Twelve years where she came home and set that game of chess aside and smiled through dinner laughed with her kids and spent time with him. She wonders why he can’t cope. She wonders why he can’t understand.

“God it’s like you don’t even know me.”

She could say the same.

“What I stand for,” he says. “What I believe in—” he shakes his head. “This isn’t it.” He steps towards her. “How do you expect me to live with it?” He asks, and there’s a pause, leaving the kitchen in an uncomfortable silence, a deafening quiet, and then— “How can I be with a person who _can_ live with it?”

She decides to try one more time, explain it one last time, praying he’d understand and see it from her view, setting aside the emotion and looking at the facts.

“It was him or—”

“Millions of other people, I know,” he says. “But he was twenty-four Elizabeth,” he tells her. “He was just a kid.”

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispers.

And she can hear footsteps above; the kids moving around their rooms, hopefully, oblivious to what was going on, what was being said, down here.

“Maybe we should be talking to lawyers.”

Her eyes flick to his. “You don’t mean that.”

It was one thing to think about, one thing to joke about once in fear, but to actually say it, to express it the way he did…

He shrugs. “I don’t know anymore.”

And he stays, standing where he stands, looking into her eyes, possibly waiting for a response, but what did he expect her to say? What did he want her to say?

He disappears into the dining room, leaving her standing alone in the kitchen.

She thinks she couldn’t have possibly heard him correctly. She thinks she’d gone one too many nights without sleep, and her mind had finally decided to fool her.

And her head screams at her, throbbing, and the tears falling now didn’t seem to help.

Her breathing isn’t coming steadily anymore, and she’s surprised her heart rate hadn’t spiked earlier in the midst of the conversation. She shakes her head— that wasn’t a conversation.

She rounds the corner of the island when she feels that familiar lump in the back of her throat, and the burning in the back of her eyes. And she starts up the stairs, and when her head lifts from the ground there’s Alison perched on the top step.

She sighs.

And although she should worry over how much she heard, worry over how much her daughter worried, she tells herself that just this once she’d let herself worry about one person at a time, and tonight that had to be herself.

She continues up the stairs, and Ali stands once she reaches the top, letting her by.

She thinks she just may have gotten away without an explanation, without having to answer any questions, but— “Are you and dad getting a divorce?” She asks.

And she tries to think of something to say, something to put her at ease, but there was no point in lying. “I— I don’t know Noodle.”

“I’m scared.”

She takes her into a hug, fingers running through the ends of her hair.

“Me too,” she whispers.

~MS~

He’d gone out, that much she knew. It was hard to miss the slam of the front door. And she couldn’t help but let her mind wander, wonder where he’d go. A bar? The thought of having a few drinks did sound appealing. It was nights like these that she wished she didn’t have a group of five, sometimes more, constantly by her side. She envied that little bit of freedom he had to leave when he wants, go where he wants, without the hassle.

She pulls the curtain back again, watching for his car, waiting for him to drive down their street.

And when one of the night shifters comes into view, making his rounds, walking a few paces up the sidewalk, she lets the curtain fall as she dissolves into another fit of tears. Their presence only seeming to remind her of their reality, of their failure of no longer simply being Henry and Elizabeth.

She knows this job has changed her, changed him. She thought for the better while he apparently thought for the worse. It had always been difficult to gamble the way she gambled with people’s lives the way they did while running ops, running assets. That hadn’t changed. But today, with _this_ job, the stakes were higher, the gambling held a higher risk. But to her, it was a risk worth taking. 

Her fingers fiddle with her phone until she finally decides to dial the one person she could think of— the one person who may understand.

They pick up on the fifth ring.

“Madam Secretary.”

She hides the surprise in her voice well.

“I’m sorry to just call.” She sniffles. “I was hoping for a piece of advice,” she says.

The other side of the line is quiet a moment.

She expected the other woman to be a bit taken aback by the meaning of the call.

“I can try. What’s going on?” Nadine asks.

She sucks in a breath before— “How did you do it?”

She’s vague, not exactly knowing how to ask, what to ask, but Nadine seems to instantly understand.

“You two will get through it,” she says.

She’s about ready to stumble on her words. “How did you—”

“I talk to Blake, and he’s been very worried about you,” she admits.

She swallows, and— “He should be,” she mumbles.

“You know—,” she begins. “Vincent played chess too,” she tells her. “Sometimes it was his decision. Sometimes it wasn’t, and he just had to fall on the sword. Fall in line.”

She pulls her knees to her chest in the window seat.

“Was there ever a time where you couldn’t get behind his decision—” she pauses. “Couldn’t see his side of something he had no choice in?”

“My relationship was a very different one than yours, but I’ve been in this line of work far longer than you Elizabeth, and still, sometimes it was hard to understand even with the both of us knowing the full context of that decision.”

“That’s reassuring,” she mumbles.

Nadine laughs. “I’m not worried about the two of you,” she tells her. “If I were, I would tell you so.”

She turns to the window when she hears tires turning outside.

“And that bit of advice?”

“Time,” she says. “It just takes time. And maybe a bit of professional help.”

She sighs. “Thank you, Nadine,” she says as she watches him approach the front door.

She was fully prepared to sleep in separate beds tonight, but maybe tomorrow she’d try again for that conversation.


End file.
